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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697457">A Rose-Scented Miasma, Stale Yet Sweet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes'>FancyLadySnackCakes</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kinktober 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stygian: Reign of the Old Ones</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Enthusiastic Consent, F/M, Hand Jobs, Lovecraftian Monster(s), Making Love, Multiple Orgasms, Non-Human Genitalia, Oral Sex, Purple Prose, Teratophilia, Touch-Starved, Vaginal Sex, lovecraftian all the way baby</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 05:14:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>8,064</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26697457</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: The Essex Hotel has become a den of near ritualistic hedonism and blatant organized crime, but it’s better than the Old Eel’s attic mattress. The Outsider and the Psychologist find themselves hunting for canned foods and privacy as the walls rattle with pleasure. It’s enough to make a statue melt and a hopeless soul reach for companionship. </p><p>A/N: Day 3 of Kinktober! Kink: Teratophilia (there will be more...) This is a game I played the fuck out of and then realized I needed to write something awful with The Outsider, cause he ticks all my boxes. If you haven't played or even heard of this game before, it's super cheap right now and very much worth the price! </p><p>Also! Please check out this NSFW image that a good friend of mine drew for The Outsider and the Psychiatrist! &lt;3 https://twitter.com/emilylurkshere/status/1308475910245486594?s=20</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Outsider (Lovecraft)/Original Female Character(s), The Outsider (Stygian)/Original Female Character(s)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Kinktober 2020 [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958581</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>62</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>A Rose-Scented Miasma, Stale Yet Sweet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>There are high-bred ladies with heirlooms of African jade and adventure-sourced golds lying between daringly bared breasts at the Essex Hotel. Those alley-sweated whores, who know so much more of the unknown than mere mortals should know, mentioned such women in passing. Fallen from grace? Hard to tell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A stranger or passersby would know little difference, yet the aristocrats act just as cocksure as before the Black Day. No longer dressed up in finery, guarded by mannerisms and clouds of rich tobacco smoke. The ladies and whores smoke the same cigarettes now—eat from the same cans of food and bend to the same Mobsters they all do—proving they were always queen </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>paupers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine ignores the massive sway of nakedness as the Outsider shuffles behind her, ever quiet and studious, while they ransack forgotten rooms for something edible… or something of some sustenance. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The two forlorn smokes in her coat pocket will buy them nothing, so better yet, they are used to pleasure their senses while hunting for scraps left behind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Each time she returns to the Essex, there's more damp, more notes of despair amidst the creeping vine work of red roots—things that pulse with life just outside one's periphery as though sneaking further into crevices and cracks when no one's watching. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On the floor above, a neglected bed frame squeals and pounds the wall in a carnal ruckus. More johns come here now than before. Less of the shoddy criminal hideaways than the week before, or the year… or the day. Perhaps it’s been mere hours since they were last here, scrounging for something to trade at Wax Face’s Pawn, yet finding an ill-kept shell of a once beautiful dwelling. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brazen noises leak between the walls like ocean water through a sinking ship. Their moans and mounting wanton peels wet her as any high tide would, yet she holds her lust close to her chest, hiding behind the creeping pangs of starvation. There's no reason to give in to such fancies, especially while the Outsider stands so close, seemingly so unimpressed by the orchestra of sexual gymnastics.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Against better judgment, she risks a look over her shoulder at the tall, ghastly creature hunched beneath the ceiling. Her eyes must throw him into vertigo, for the burning embers of his own widen between the dank wrappings. The Outsider stares silently, barely breathing within her presence, and then—then he exhales as though through a broken glass bottle—a sound like stormy winds, beaten by a rocky shore and thick with salt.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His teeth clench, then chatter for a swollen second before the deep, rich rasp of his voice leaks behind strands of dark limp hair, "These humans are much filthier than first I suspected. How is it they find me abominable while they fornicate in such unsavory climates?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even before the Black Day, she would not disagree with him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Humans fear the unknown, and few times have there been less known than now," she replies, interjecting more of a whisper into her throat than she supplied to the bellhop downstairs. The Outsider has a way of bringing tenderness from her, as though she spoke to a wraith easily spooked by one forceful exhalation. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"This," he rumbles like the distant vibration of a collapsing church, "is a fear you share with your fellow man?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You do not?" Lorraine counters, sweeping dust from a master-crafted vanity; mirror broken and sunken. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It is they, your kin, I fear. Whatever horrors lurk beneath those brackish eddies, </span>
  <em>
    <span>those</span>
  </em>
  <span> creatures do not lie awake concocting stories to use against me. Even tentacled octopods ignore me while human hands see fit to spill my essence across the cobblestones," he pauses to breathe—a thing of broken melody—and continues, albeit more intimately, "You, however, are little like them."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knows not what he stirs within her while those depraved beings he speaks of submit to carnal pleasure with higher intensity. It is as though he hears them not, which, at this time, she wishes neither did she. Their supping sounds and shameless begging is branding her a slave to need—to desires she has been unburdened by since the Black Day. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"It is only right to treat others with respect when they show such character, Outsider," she murmurs, fingering the tarnished handles of gold leaf on one vanity drawer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider merely stares at her with intensity while the walls sing with lovemaking. Even after what feels like eons and yet seconds, she is unsure of the meaning behind his studious looks like the first time she spotted him near the Miskatonic. What musings lay beneath those cotton trappings? Does he find her lovely, or does he find her wanting—a lack of something he expects but does not see? These questions are queer in that she never did so readily concern herself with her colleagues' opinion, nor the lovers she took so sparingly. When it matters the least, she often wonders what his opinion of her would be—would prove.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Well," she blows brown locks of hair off her face and pats the vanity table down—empty crystal decanters and tinctures rattling in their glass trays, "If it is not the unknown that spooks you, then perhaps you will begin searching that questionable mattress for supper?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Orbs eclipsed with blown-black pupils shift to the stained bedspread, slipping along each wrinkle and haphazard fold before looking to her with the same curious inspection. Somewhere in her satchel, a pocket watch clicks. Eventually, he nods—a nearly-imperceptible motion that is seen more in the shift of his lank hair than the acknowledgment of his spine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Thank you. Another day's time, and we will be too weak to handle a single hopeless lunatic. Plus, this hunger has bred a repugnance in my gut. I could not bear to find something growing in those sheets."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Fairly so," he drolls, sweeping the sheets off the bed with a rip of his preternatural claws, "One mustn't dance the maniac's caper if they can avoid such."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She recalls such men and women in their comical waltzes, brandishing homespun instruments of violence while, at times, blowing their companions' brains over the walls. No amount of psychology could help them, and…even time and hunger made her less sympathetic to their woes. It pains her to feel nothing for the sick of mind, but there is too much at stake. To not have a healthy amount of apathy for those looking to extinguish her flame would be suicide.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Several drawers pull empty with not but glass bits and faux pearls. A paper box beneath a vanity stool promises something substantial but appears to carry naught but tattered underclothes and something shaped like an aubergine. She is halfway with it out the box when a throaty chirr distracts her, both eyes, hands, and rumbling belly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Peaches," comes a howling whisper between unveiled teeth and chewed lips, "And a tin of sardines leaking something cursed."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Held between thumb and clawed forefinger, the Outsider presents such a find with an almost elegant flourish of his unnaturally long limb—gallant if not for the creak of bone and eerie grimace. No matter his brittle smile surrounded in bandages, Lorraine returns it in kind with dimples and natural appetite.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Dinner then." They both nod.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Black Day said sweet dreams to candlelit meals and fine silver. Gone are moments of gentle mastication—of savoring each bite—now are canned rations. And yet? The Outsider fills their lantern with kerosene, pulls their shared, bent plate out and dishes up dinner of succulent peaches and spoiled anchovies with care seldom seen. The day after this, tomorrow, she will find a way to repay such gentlemanly bearing with a better meal than this. When they wake from this dreary moment, Lorraine will procure all the corn and spaghetti so they may feast and swell. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Tonight," she speaks above the squeal of lady-like whores and monstrous mobsters, "I will fancy these anchovies a lemon-parched salmon, braised in goat-butter and dill. Our cold peaches are slices of graham cracker crumb cobbler, hot and gooey with molasses. What do you think, my friend?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A single fork of surgical steel—bent at the neck some years ago—thumps the plate like a barge docking too hard. The Outsider seems taken aback by her label for him, as tipped in equilibrium as when she stopped to ask him his name so long ago. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Back home, in my castle, I ate for continuance, not desire. This is little else but nourishment."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Was it your books that truly fed you then?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider looks silently towards the plate, his feelings of apathy well noted in the film of his fiery gaze and lack of gluttonous rumble. So too, would she rather food be a simple chore than a reminder of all they've lost. He does not reply to her sardonic quip, but merely hands the fork to her with a loose grip; claws fluttering against the briefest graze with her fingers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not for the first time, does his touch cause a palpitation down below. Perhaps he's imbued with too much knowledge—a thing of dark attraction—from all those black books in his castle library that a simple touch leaves her yearning for more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No matter what the reedy intake of breath means on him, and the soft gasp from her, they begin to dine in silence. A slop of sweetness mixes with salted juices from the tiny, clumped fishes. It's unappealing, yet hunger does nasty things to all creatures, humans, and other alike, so they consume it all with relish.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The sky gradually falls into a red-tinged terror, like a sunset falling on a different planet through the curtains. Ancient currents of intelligent clouds coil and twist in tentacular rhythms as their lantern light quivers on, safe for now in their shabby Essex Hotel room.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fornicating outside their lodging gradually ebbs into music as the drowsiness of mental toil takes hold. Exhaustion comes as it does with a weakened will, and that too affects her tongue in mysterious ways. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Outsider," she murmurs at his dark presence, sitting as he does between a chest of high drawers and what once was a floor-length mirror, "Do you not hear the way they philander in their hedonism? How ugly some of their noises are? It turns my stomach."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She manages to speak such words and breathe while nestled into an embroidered pillow of perfume and sweat, indignant and warm. The mattress, not too foul to dream upon, squeals as she adjusts her spine. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hidden in an amalgamation of tucked-in limbs and antediluvian dress wrinkles, the Outsider lifts his head against a drapery of limp tresses. He opens his eyes and ponders them along the mattress beneath her, before heaving a great, barnacled groan. "Pleasures I would not expect a human to find abhorrent above these current conditions. Was I able, in another life perhaps, crave such companionship," he adds darkly, almost in insult, "Narry would I seek such with humans, though."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That statement wounds her egocentric wishes more than she wishes to admit. "Truly?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His nod sounds like a ship rope creaking with the churn of the sea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Pray tell, who would you seek such with?" Lorraine queries, more than faintly curious.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His gaze blinks behind several thick, oily strands of darkness, before his teeth grind in a grumble, "Back when I was in the womb of my castle, my books provided my companionship. But, as I am not there, nor will this cursed realm carry me back soon, I desire to spend a night in quiet contemplation. My thoughts are now my only friend."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Yet you spend nights, days, and the times between with me, and I am not a mute mouse, am I?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No, but neither are you the same as the ones beyond these walls…" he ponders, drawing his limbs closer to his trunk, "I dare even believe you are human as you claim. For in body, you look the part, but in soul… I wonder…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The buoy in her stomach bobs and some machination works her vocal cords in a sudden leap of confidence, "I wonder too, often and desperately, what you truly think of me, Outsider?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The man—creature—remains silent for a long, cold moment. His eyes shimmer in momentary wonder piqued with curiosity seen only in weary animals and abused children. Burning dots of amber stare and study, shift, and drape along her in itching caress. For a moment in time, Lorraine loses the ability to breathe.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You are curious," he remarks with quiet determination, "That much is certain. Saving a horror as I from a lynching differs from what they do to each other now, yet I find it more intimate a gesture."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She agrees with a soft nod, yet the same humanism that saved him in the streets then likens to the desire she feels for him now. A scratchy, heated passion that seals itself between her thighs—nestled in the softest parts of her—leaks, thinking about discovering what lay beneath so many bandages. Something of unknown origin he may be, but the satin frock coat and tailored trousers says much about the soul beneath. He may be no human, but Lorraine drips for him as though he were one… or, perhaps, it is that he is not human that intrigues her. Her fellow man has not shown their good side in quite some time. It would make sense to fall victim to such a gentleman that differed so significantly from the vileness humans have sunk to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Would, if you could spend the night with me the way they do…" she whispers, nearly faltering under his twin, sun-shaped intensity, "Would you do so? Or does the mere thought disturb your senses?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A crude, self-demeaning smile creases the bandages around his face. It is at once a hideous sight and an erotic phantasy, "Ah, yes. Like early Innsmouthers that fell prey to the charms of oceanic primates. There's little humanity left to lose now, why not soil our somas as well?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Disturbed, then. I see," her voice breaks with the attempt to make light of her rebuffed affections, but inside, a piece untouched by Arkham's banishment, cracks. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As she hangs her head in sorrow, his grave tone of smoking coals and cobwebs, groans from his corner: "Eons I've spent with leather spines and paper skins. Humans repulse me." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One of his legs drops to the floor where he sits, exposing a vulnerable part of his anatomy in a show of trust, or so her psychological eye ascertains, "But it would be mendacious to say you are not… resplendent, if not distressingly so."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With the repeating static of sexual gratification surrounding them, Lorraine sits up with as much sensual dispensary as possible and gathers poise. Within, deeply, her heart thrums in tandem with the rattling of the walls.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Might I touch you?" She asks, anticipation puppeteering her expression.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Quiet limbo comes as swift as a deft slice, for her request is met with not but a widened stare. The Outsider does not speak up until Lorraine dares pull a leg from beneath her, resting her shoe sole on the floor. Only at the threat of her coming too close—of taking his silence for acquiescence—does he finally respond.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"No!" He bellows in a quiet roar. "No, no…" He follows with leaking panic, "... I will not debase myself with your misplaced infomania."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His form retreats inward, nearly cowering like a cornered beast.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Softly, tenderly, she whispers, "I am not bewitched by curiosity, my friend… but desire has bitten me deeply. I…" She searches imaginary tomes for the right words, "I realize now how truly lonely I've been."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Lonesomeness…" he parrots. Amber stones stare and quiver in her direction before closing half-slitted and starved, "I forget that feeling—a gnawing, cavernous ache that builds a shield of rind and bitter rot. The last time I was touched… I-I don't recall."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Perhaps there is a remembered emotion or sensation attached to the thought of touch?" The words come from years of psychoanalysis and hypnotism, but the question comes from her soul.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A high squawking comes from the room above. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If the garish squeals of pleasure ruin her words' gravity, the Outsider does not say nor show. He stares, transfixed by the question, thinking noisily. Long, aberrational claws twitch against the tops of his knees, pressed as they are to the tall, lankness beneath red satin and age-weathered cotton. His teeth saw, and eyes shiver, until, like a whistle beneath water, he groans, "Envy…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider continues gutturally, "I feel envious of human promiscuity. Thirsty like a rabid mongrel thirsts, needing yet running in horror. These emotions… a congruity if ever there was one."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine hums deep in her pharynx, "Only a few times is touch something to envy. If you'll reconsider." She presses once more, schooling her voice into wet silk, "I would cherish an opportunity to erase the memory of those stones. My hands are much softer."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Salted anticipation slips down her throat as she swallows, waiting.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Instead of a word of acceptance, he simply nods his head once, watching wildly even before she makes the first move. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fastidiously, she slips from the mattress to her feet. Like approaching a skittish creature, each step is measured and slow, only when she can pick up the smell of chloramine and worn books, does she sink to her knees before him. Even sitting, he towers over her by a dozen inches or more. The closer she crawls, the further his neck bows, head hanging to watch each movement before him. She moves carefully, treading each palm press through faraway Moroccan rugs as though swimming through an undertow. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider stiffens, yet something brings her closer still. The covered bulge in his throat bobs, working beneath layers of frills, worn and ragged by time and hardship. Beneath the open frock, a thin button-down wrinkles as his chest rises and falls—as his stomach tightens and hiccups with tension. Years of study have proven a wonder when judging the inner workings of a man's mind, yet he has been an anomaly until now. Only now does he move in ways she can interpret.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The subtle shift of his pelvis and lax of his bent legs, adds with his increased breathing to prove there is something building within. Perhaps, he is experiencing a turgescence… or... </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She pauses inches from his boots, the heat of his shins bathing her bosom. "Just how much resemblance do you share with humans, Outsider?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The question invites narrowed eyes and a sudden drop of both his hands from knees to the carpet. That guarded posturing melts into something nearly inviting—as easily accessible as the sea yet as dangerous and uncharted. His shy charactering of old is less prevalent now, but tension remains.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She lifts a palm only for rumbles, choppy and logged, to rattle in his throat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine continues, unimpeded by danger until she passes between his high-buckled boots, his legs opening and falling straight as she moves closer… ever closer… between his knees and eventually... betwixt his thighs... </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Two eyes, two arms, and legs," she maunders, "You are bipedal for sure… but you say we are far from kin."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You prove yourself very observant," comes his dark reply, almost possessive but of or by, she does not know. "Either touch me as you please or wonder of my cursed lineage in silence."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At his insistence, Lorraine settles close enough to be one without touching, and then… she strokes three fingertips along the edge of his bandaged face. Beneath the haphazardly twined dressings, he is warm, hot—so much so that she narrowly misses the sudden inward breath he takes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider feels of flesh and bone and lifeblood beneath. She suddenly lifts her other hand, perhaps too fast, for he gasps as she traces his chin and temple with an impassioned thirst. As she strokes his hidden face, her thumb grazes the corner of his mouth, tasting a hardened lesion where his lips sink close to his gums. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Almost like burns, she thinks, savoring how his mouth pulls in a twitch—at the way his chest reverberates.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Do I overwhelm you?" She asks, hoping beyond hope that is not the case, "You must tell me if I am…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider slowly awakens from the trance of her touch, but he does not shake her off, nor does he voice what she fears; instead, he bends his neck back—the sound nearly a wooden creak—and pushes his face deeper within her hands. At this, she cannot help but smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As whores bleat their bliss and faraway skin slaps, Lorraine sits within the alcove of his legs and explores the many cotton-wrapped trenches and cliffs of his face. Gradually, his drooping gaze lowers further, falling closed in some fashion of pleasure. It isn't until she slips downward, tracing the hidden tendons of his throat, that he stirs.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I remember…" he mutters, bleary yet conscious, "... you should stop, Lorraine. This intimacy awakens in me something… befouled."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her gaze creeps down his chest, stomach, and further to his groin, where the faintest rise of a phallus lay. Days gone, men would refer to them as cocks, and ladies—in private—a member. Whatever the proper name, it's expansion makes her wet once more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Befouled…" she mocks. "Humans throw such words at you from afar and near, but you are anything but. This too is anything but," she explains, palms across the skeletal density of his clavicles. "I wish to continue, Outsider."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She expects a nod or a harried 'no' but neither come. The creature reaches a palm up, holding a monstrously clawed hand beside her face, then halts. Ghoulish eyes the color of tigers, scrutinize his own hand against her face. Before he can withdraw in veiled disgust, she grips that massive, bestial paw, and… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He brushes a knuckle across her cheek.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Why must you be so soft? Worn silk has never felt so smooth," he speaks, as dovelike as his light caress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No withered flesh, ghoul, or scaled being has a texture like the creature before her, but, while his claws are rough and vile, he wields them gently. Her lashes flutter as he stokes that throng of longing within her, playing her strings with such mastery, she moans. But a moan of pleasure—a cry of desire and more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unbidden, Lorraine sinks into him, chest pressed to chest and heat to heat. The chugging pulse of his heart thuds between her breasts as hard as her own. Nothing, nigh his displeasure, could pry her away from him, for the echoes of pleasure that surrounds have taken its toll on her repose. Thankfully, the Outsider has melted enough that her palms beneath the lapels of his frock only brings a vast groan and not a jolt of stress as he might have moments ago. Even the humidity of her breath, panting against his teeth, only draws him closer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I am…" she sighs, swallows, and moans, "burning…"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The weight of his clawed hand on the small of her back—snuck beneath the heavy linen jacket—makes her sweat. There is something in his touch that makes her mewl. Orphic energy that boils the blood beneath her veins. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You are…" he pauses to growl against the pressure she bores into his lap, "... ever strange and splendid."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine stops short of plastering his thin-lipped grimace in a kiss, realizing not too late, to ask this creature his permission. But, as though by telepathy, the Outsider asks her first.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It's a soft, shy question, overgrown by years, decades of lonesomeness, "How rotten a sight do you see me for? How far does the depth of your obsessions go?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Not, and very... “ she leans in to press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth, "... very deep," and another closer, firmer, "... how deep shall I go?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His hands upon her back slip, trembling down where she curves at the hip and rear. Subtle stings of sharp claws dig into the threadbare silk dress that clings there. The Outsider squeezes to his pleasure, yet makes no reply, content to be laid upon and slowly—languishingly—pressed to the floor where his own pillows lay.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The time-rot bandages around his chin and jaw tighten as his neck bends forth; aureate gaze following her as she glides down his chest to the hiked mess of cotton wrinkles and brass buttons. There's a deep resonance from his abdomen where the sunken muscles tense and relax with every wayward touch. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Against the depression of his diaphragm, she speaks softly and sweetly to ease whatever apprehension rattles his bones, "I will be gentle." And she will, lest she be another evocation of Arhkam's belligerent mob—a monolith of hate, fear, and the unrelenting violence those two emotions produce.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beneath her petite palm—used to wield pendulums and quills most of their existence—Lorraine strokes the outlines of a turgid member contained in age-worn linen. It stretches his trousers to the point their buttons run flush, dimpling the blood-filled mass beneath. She wonders, only momentarily, how the Outsider views this part of his anatomy. Were there times in his solitude that he touched himself curiously? Did he have books of ancient Indian philosophers that held as much esteem for sexual dances as they did the origin of consciousness? If he did, did the creature wonder about things happening now, at this very moment?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the filthy rugs beneath him, his claws draw deep, rending fibers and patterns as she prods the twitching thing with care.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"My actions resemble my heart's intentions, Outsider…" and with his moniker still a whisper on her lips, she undoes his slacks clasp, then a button, then another, until the ever-thinner fabric of his undergarments are carefully peeled down to reveal what only pages of the Necromonicon could delineate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A color of shock paints her face, unbidden, and involuntary.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I-I will not shame myself with this-" he begins to say—voice rising an octave and breaking fluidity—but Lorraine forgets herself and grasps the writhing pillar of flesh with one hand. It's this contact with another living soul that silences him like a ceremonial dagger through the gullet. Bright amber eyes slide back and forth; lighthouses beneath tresses of wilted blackness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watches in silence, breathing heavily.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Only moments occur where she is unsure of what to do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A distant whore screams for more—more manly cockhead to plow her gardens deeper. Such a command mimics her own desires to the point it sets her touch in motion. She squeezes the oiled phallus, and watches as the Outsider seizes quietly above her. In her hand, his cock trembles like an arrow before wiggling as though loosed into the air. She pauses, relaxes her grip, and watches the considerable organ sway like a bewitched cobra…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"...Curious," She whispers to herself, finding that the scientist in her ponders even as the wanton woman further drips with animalistic thoughts. To have such a malleable and energetic thing within her would be… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"In that great library of yours," she mentions in absent thought, still quite focused on reigning his phallus so she may stroke the deep trenches that wrap around it like a crude spring of vein work, "Did you read on encounters of the flesh?" </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Sexual pairings?" She clarifies.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"...Yes." His reply comes in a mere rasp of cimmerian shade, hot like the fires of some monotheistic hell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The thought of the Outsider—unburdened by his own abysmal exterior—flipping through such texts, forces blood into her cheeks. She smiles, only at the sodden phantasy of his clawed hand teasing this marvelous thing from his trousers… testing his hold… squeezing himself to bliss and then completion. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Oh," she moans aloud. To think of the mess such an act of self-love would make. The thought causes her to stroke the twitching length pulsating within her grasp. A vibration soars within as various throbbing veins appear just beneath the tawny flesh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She squeezes again, and the creature throws his head back into the wall, tensing at the shock of sensation. His teeth gnash and a rumble, as if from the sea's trenches, bubbles up his throat.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine strokes again with the same response. She does another churn, and once more before an oily, ink-black substance wells and dribbles from a fleshy slit the color of posies, cut into the tip of his phallus. Her nostrils flare at the odor—salt and sugar and something sour like the rind of a lemon. Such a curious scent that reminds her of palate cleansers between courses of elegant fare. Because there is little hope of escape from the damnable fate they all share, she settles closer—breath on the writhing, twitching thing—and tests the flavor with a quick caress of her tongue.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outside rumbles in the throes of an internal thunderstorm, and bucks his hips upwards. The tip of his squirming member rubs across her lips, tenses against the contact, then leans closer as though stretching towards that source of wet warmth that is her mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Curious, she thinks for a clock's tick of time before brazen lust clenches her pelvic floor. There is time—always so much time now—to explore each and every crevice his appendage may glide inside, but Lorraine feels an ache lower and idles the thought that he and his serpentine cock might enjoy such vices.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Outsider," she whispers, feeding whatever ache resides in him with feather-soft kisses to a somewhat flexible root of flesh, "Have you been inside anyone before?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I have-" He swallows—gauzy fibers stretching around his throat, "... I have not." </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As though seeing her for the first time—lips parted beside his zealous member—he snarls. It's an animalian sound as much as it is human. The resonance plumps her veins, coaxing blood to pool in her lower cavity. She has never wanted something within her—inside her—more. No exotic men from faraway isles on her many expeditions, nor learned men of comley quality, or the charismatic popsy, have wetted her as he has.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As the Outsider rakes and ruins his claws through the floorcloth, she lathers her fingers up and down his wiggling, glistening flesh. A farewell kiss pops the blubbing tip as she straightens her spine, stands, and sheds her jacket. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fabric sags behind her, and so too, no later, does the thin dress material that has seen better days. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unfathomable luminance cuts through the broken window to her right. Hopefully, the lighting is flattering, but she's confident in her nakedness as she is unskilled in the gun sitting in her satchel. There is a sense of security knowing he knows little in this regard, but that does not stop her skin from crawling with goose flesh—nipples stiffening—against his pinpoint stare. Each reveal of flesh awakens a shimmer in his eyes, turning the garish yellow glow to a dark, fiery ember. Bandages beneath and above his sockets darken what little unnatural flesh he exposes. The effect, in the end, is not dissimilar to boiling stars in a black night sky. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nostalgia grips her a moment before the Outsider rises to his knees, turgid cock undulating as he moves. He raises half-wrapped hands to her hips but pauses until she steps into his claws. The prick of them makes her gasp, but such a sound is nothing to the startled intake when his tongue of queer purple stretches to lick her upper thigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"You mustn't feel…" she trails off to moan as his tongue drags a wet line to the crease between mons and inner thigh, "... please, don't think you must just because I-" A sharp intake.This time she quiets in a weak whispering sigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His tongue—unlike a man's tongue in length and girth, same as his cock—slides between the crotch of her legs. It wets pre-moistened flesh and skims across her clitoris, aware of the nerve cluster almost instantly. The Outsider knows what that fleshy bead is because he twists his tongue in ways that cups and scrapes along its center until her eyes water and legs tremble.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She fears unraveling his unruly wrappings if she braces against his head, but an intense flick of his tongue, sends her forth; a boat rocked with a rogue wave. Her fingers coil in the obsidian tresses, or what shows between the bandages and grips tight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Wet, slippery lashings fill her belly with a weighty kind of bliss. The toes still stuffed in her dress shoes curl. Her eyes roll back into her skull. The flesh that his claws curl into and cut, bleed softly. All the while, Lorraine trembles and kicks her heels open, allowing the horrific visage of corpse-dressings and hooded amber orbs to feast upon her soaked flesh.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pauses to take in a breath, pulling humid air through the gauze, before readjusting his palms around her naked cheeks—a thumb sliding between them—and resumes his devoursome hunger. She is nothing now but an axon to be teased and played. Her clitoris swells as does the delicate folds that are smothered and pulled with a wicked tongue. The Outsider snarls against her mound, opens his mouth of many teeth and dark gum, to work and wiggle his tongue up, deep and inside. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I will," she pants, leaning over his crown in shaking merriment, "... I am going to-"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A rotten roar reverberates in his throat, it electrifies the fine hairs along her body and mutes her but for the stray, solitary hiccup of anomalous bliss. Sensations of exotic lava within her bloodstream and a hollow trench swelling with exquisite pleasure, overwhelms her. Lorraine feels at once empty and brimming, rocking mindlessly against his tongue, which thrusts and coils and skims her inner walls dry.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"...Ha'ah-" It's an almost imaginary sound, oddly quiet for such a loud eruption of pleasure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A sonic boom seemingly flares from his flicking, slurping, and beating tongue, ebbing and flowing into all corners of her earthly flesh. Paroxysm grips her like it never has before and perhaps… never will, at least not on this plane of existence, certainly not for anyone but this creature feasting upon her as he does.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Something in the way she twitches or mewls must signal to him she is at her limit, or—more daringly a thought—he feels something within her contract in a warning. The Outsider, for whatever reason, drags his tongue from her body. It slips with an unholy sound of saliva and lubrication, a fat purple mass of taste buds, and dextrous muscle. As he licks his teeth, he bends his neck to stare up at her with a shine to the thin, malformed flesh of his lips.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Beads of sweat cling to what little mangled skin peeks through the bandages. Thick, heavy locks fall across his shrouded face, dissecting a shimmering gaze with a candle of red within a rim of gold. "I was but a boy when I read of such acts, but it was not until eons later I desired one day to try such methods. You seem..." he appears to search for the proper word as her fingers uncoil from the top of his head, "... exhausted."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine blurts in drained humor, something about the innocent description seeming so ludicrous given the fluids that dribble around the inside of her knees. More than a fair few other words—all slightly vile—come to mind, but one, in particular, shines brightest in the blissfully stark cove of the mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Relieved," she corrects him, to which the Outsider simply blinks in further question, "I have spent much of my life philandering between passions, and rarely has the passion of flesh gripped me. I feel… perhaps, this was a mistake. Your touch has cured something within I find hard to name."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still on his knees—so tall and thin and sturdy—the Outsider pulls at her rear end, coaxing her to the floor on her own knees. She willingly follows his lead, but ungracefully as a newborn gull. Her landing is loud and wobbly at best. Thankfully, the creature before her cups a lower cheek and shoulder to keep her steady.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine pushes a hand to his bony chest and another on an outstretched thigh of sinew and stringy muscle, "I think you might be more learned than me in this regard. Experience does not qualify as expertise."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"I would hardly call that 'expertise,' Lorraine."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Now, her name upon his tongue has taken on another quality since soaking it in her fluids. Such candor fills her chest with a warming ache.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"... but I would," she counters and smiles, “And I would if you'd please, relieve you of whatever tension you may harbor."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Maybe it's the thought of her returning such affections that force his breath to come faster, or it's the way she licks her fingertips before running their sodden pads along that squirming cock that's twitching and stretching into her touch like a dog desiring affection. Such a curious thing, she thinks upon again, pulling through the oily, seminal fluid in wonder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Sit upon the bed then… if it pleases you," he mutters in a dark octave, head tilting to further shroud his amber eyes of dim sunshine. It is a look masked in the terrors a child might envision whilst sleeping at night—a look that grown men would and have fled in horror from, but Lorraine bows in under the strands of limp hair to place a sweet kiss to his cloth-covered nose. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She does as he asks, naked and more lubricious between the thighs than she's ever been. A cloud of stale perfume rises up her nose as she sits. The mattress springs squeal and somewhere in the distance—not too far away—another whore cries to their god for mercy from such pleasure.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider rises slowly, standing at a lumbering height with his shoulders hunch and head hanging low. He is too tall for this place and too otherworldly for her, but she's become greedy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Spread your legs," he demands, and she does as asked once more. A faint rush of blood rises in her cheeks, which surprises her, given he has nearly eaten her alive from the place he stares at now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes sway sharply in their sockets, charting the exposed folds, creases, and dewy drops. Maybe anyone, even a seasoned alley walker, would feel virginal beneath such a gaze? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Lie back."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine does as he asks; commands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ceiling above is stained with moisture and reaching black molds. Zoological shapes form from such haphazard marks in the plaster, but that is just the human mind searching for meaning in the meaningless. Her thoughts do not wander long, for the creature's steady grip grasps her beneath each knee. He lifts her legs up straight and slots them beneath his ribs, ankle over ankle. She is reminded of how tall he is and how small she must seem…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her heels click as he adjusts his stance, and for some strange reason, she giggles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider scrutinizes her for a moment as they lock eyes, but her heart is not left to wonder his response for long as a slow grin stretches his bandages, exposing teeth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"What do you mean to do to me in this position, I wonder," she whispers coyly. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Nothing you will want to tell your kin of. That I'm sure."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"Secrets between friends… or lovers," she hushes, tweaking her nipple in a poor woman's act at seduction.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There's something about his methodology now that puts her at ease. Dare says he's relaxed her, but as soon as she thinks that word into existence, a slick… slippery length of flesh thumps against the back of her knee. His cock spanks her flesh for a brief moment, then glides around, down the slope of bone to dent the meat of her thigh. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"...Ah!" Lorraine jumps against the bedsprings screeching—as his animated appendage nudges muscle and fat like a hungry sea-eel.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"My apologies…it has a will of its own."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She parts her lips to tell him it's no bother, that she was merely surprised at how dexterous it could be, but he kneels part way to the mattress beneath her and lifts her lower half cleanly off the bed and onto the searching, reaching, struggling cock of abominable length and girth and intelligence. It spears her while inflating and thinning and working deeper as if itching inside only to quiver and demand more friction. Above her, the Outsider's eyes roll into the back of his skull. His face becomes a mass of darkness, gauze, and bared teeth as her insides stretch and squeeze down on the thrusting, spiraled member. He is nothing like she imagined. No past sensation could prepare her for the squirming within that somehow manages to engorge and mold to the form of her own body before being wrung out… then… forcefully thrust back inside.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Unfasted trousers of elegant but warm material rub and alight her backside in an itchy fire with every slap and grind. His sharpened digits squeeze and pull her backward and forwards over his cock. How he fits the bestial thing inside her, against all laws of physics, she might never know. It is only vital that it is inside her… fucking her… making her scream her voice dry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is impossible, she thinks, mindless to the throes of ecstasy. She keens aloud again, overwhelmed now… against the mattress where her shoulders dig, and her spine bows up off it. The small of her back aches, but the pain is pointless—the pain is not even pain. All that is is the Outsider and the rotten, frightful grunts he makes with each burial of flesh. He plows her insides with meticulous fashion, as though he's following unseen instructions written in the naked skin on display to him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he rocks her body to and fro, her breasts burn from undulating across her chest. Still half-mad—voice a broken shrill—she grips one handful and shudders at the combined sensations of his otherworldly tumidity and her own caress.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine says something that makes him chuckle darkly—makes him grab her around the hip and tailbone so that he may more easily piston his cock within her imprisoned lower half. Fluids slip and warm under the curved plump of her backside, dribbling to the mattress below. Some rivers of essence flow down her spine and wet the space between her shoulder blades while they dig into the bed, but it is nothing that concerns her… for nothing bothers her as she begins to capsize. Her body sags in his hold. Her breasts bounce, and her belly tightens. A feeling, kin with the one overwhelming explosion he licked from her, begins to build. Pressure amasses where he fucks her mercilessly. Pleasure rises where his flickering tip of leaking oil swirls and suckles at the deepest reaches she owns.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It is too much, and then… just as suddenly, everything is in perfect homeostasis. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Her voice cracks like the hull of a broken boat. She begins to sink into rosey waters of purified euphoria, begging noiselessly for the creature to join her. If this is the way she dies, she will be more abundant than all of Arkham… all of the earthly denizens then, now and to be determined. But it is not the end, it is better by far. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine is held steadily as she twitches and squirms in her orgasmic fit. Caringly, she is deposited to the mattress and guarded by long limbs and hanging willow leaves of black hair. That frenzied pace that brought her to her peak slows. Now, he moves with gentle, coiling thrusts of shallow magnitude that spreads her pleasure past her body and into the aura of her soul…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A strangled hiss and throaty groan bellows above her. The Outsider drops his head to the bare mattress, just beside her shoulder and freezes, thrusts, and stiffens. Sweaty, exhausted—truly this time—and bliss-weakened, Lorraine manages to hug her limbs around the trunk of his ribs as he shoves himself deep several more times before unleashing an oily, heated substance within her. It feels like a poison fighting to penetrate her soft tissue, but she knows better… or perhaps she is too satiated to bother with notions of fear and paranoia. It is a dangerous thing to be sure, but she doesn't care. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hot sting of fluid filling and spilling from inside is like basking beneath a summer sun. It is rain showers and sunshine, kisses and hand-holding. This feeling is what it must be to dream awake… and she is addicted to such…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"When can we do this again…?" She murmurs against the side of his head, nuzzling loose bandages of sweat and musk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider heaves with a steadying breath before his ribs rattle with silent laughter. Hopefully, his mirth is not self-deprecating or in response to her naive question. She would much rather stay quiet than for him to think less of her now… but the truth is that she is already starving for that feeling again, and there is still too much work to be done.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As he removes himself from the bed, she grips him tighter, fearing he will leave her alone on the stained mattress, cursing what once was warm and comfortable into something cold and hard. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine has already risen out of bed into an isolated world of horrors once before. She is not ready to face sleep by her lonesome… nor waken to continue their perilous journey of survival and answers just yet. She desperately wants to be fucked and feather-brained again and then again… until she withers away, perhaps.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"If you release me, I will rinse your body of whatever decay I spilled inside you." It is said with an odd lilt of humor that is both sardonic and apathetic, and then he whispers more genuinely: "If you welcome it. I would enjoy a repeat of these activities before we rest tonight."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine nods, allowing him to do whatever gives him a feeling of security. She's far too preoccupied with how easily she could waste her remaining existence in this room, crying her pleasure to the rotten walls until that slumbering god swallows them. Even when the Outsider finishes wiping away the accumulation of clear fluids and ink-like slime, the thought of dying—filled with his cock—warms her. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider does not undress, but he does not button back the eel-like member that twitches in rest, either.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They lay together, drowning in the Essex Hotel as countless fallen peoples of all classes dine on the whims of the sex impulse. In the quiet cacophony of moaning whores, they stare at the other in comfortable silence. Their egos chat and argue, but no words pass their lips. She sees it in his eyes and knows he sees it in hers. Tonight—or whatever the sorbet of orange and red outside says it is—they will do as they please, but when they wake… well, there is much to be done, she reminds herself again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps, there is a way out of this wayward limbo. Maybe even, he will invite her back to his castle where they may explore this fabled book of exotic arts more deeply. Only time may tell. But for now, she has pleasures to suck from his body as he will hers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"So, will you dare spill that ichor down my throat this time, Outsider?"</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She sneaks her fingers between them and begins to play with the soft, unfurled creation of cock; begging for it to bite her.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Outsider hisses and draws his claws across puffy welts on her hip, still risen and red from his attentions. He glares at her fiendishly and bares his teeth, "One day I will discover that you are no human after all, and then we will see about your appetite for my toxic essence. That is if it doesn't kill you by then."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"That sounds uncannily like a 'yes' to me."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>"... mayhaps."</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Lorraine grins and leans in for a kiss, delighted to find he is mountains less shy.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you so much for reading. All typos are my own. If you have time, please let me know what you think. &lt;3</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brimbrimbrimbrim">TUMBLR</a><br/><a href="https://discord.gg/BS4uvMK">DISCORD</a><br/><a href="https://curiouscat.me/brimbrimbrimbrim">CURIOUS CAT</a><br/><a href="https://twitter.com/LydiaBrim">TWITTER</a><br/><a href="https://www.instagram.com/brim_brim_brim_brim/">INSTAGRAM</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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